


To Flame

by unsettled



Category: Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Genre: M/M, Madness, handkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-16
Updated: 2010-06-16
Packaged: 2017-10-10 03:45:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/95118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's sweet, wet, leaves you wanting more; much like Tarrant's mouth, Ilosovic thinks to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Flame

Tarrant's on a roll today, rambling like Ilosovic's never heard before, but he knows better than to interrupt. So he listens and nods, occasionally quirking an eyebrow, and that is all the encouragement Tarrant needs to head off on another round of circular reasoning, tangents breeding tangents, and never mind that it's less of a related tangent and more of a completely different unconnected line - a different world of thought altogether. He doesn't mind terribly; Ilosovic could listen to Tarrant talk forever, words rolling out in that underland tinged tone, weaving around them, creating entire worlds of fancy.

At some point, Tarrant got to his feet and started wandering as he rambled, through pale halls and past faintly smiling courtiers who also know better than to interrupt; but that does not mean they don't look askance, or titter politely behind their raised hands. Ilosovic glares at them, and they quickly find somewhere else to be; not that it matters, since Tarrant has already drifted away, his voice trailing behind him like expensive scent. Ilosovic follows it.

The end up in one of the gardens, lit by lantern trees, small glowing pools of light eddying against the dark. Tarrant skirts them, having shifted to a topic almost relevant to their current surroundings; stars and lights and moons and bats. Ilosovic sighs, but at least he seems to be somewhat aware of the present. For once.

He's not really watching Tarrant, his eyes only half focusing on the small insects that flitter about, drawn in and driven mad by light. They die, tiny husks littering the stones. Tarrant has stopped talking; he glances up.

Tarrant stands beneath one of the trees, head flung back, staring up into the branches searchingly. Ilosovic steps silently behind him, looking up as well, wondering what has caught Tarrant's attention, and Tarrant reaches up one pale hand. It comes nowhere near the ripe fruit he was obviously reaching for, and he speaks without turning. "Would you get that for me?"

Ilosovic plucks the fruit easily, and hands it down to Tarrant, and Tarrant takes it, still without even looking at him. He moves to one of the many benches lining the path, and sits, looks down at the fruit as he turns it over and over in his hands, then taps the stone beside him. "Sit," he says. Ilosovic sits, straddling the bench that's awkwardly small to him. He faces Tarrant, who curls his legs up and leans back against Ilosovic. Ilosovic's breath halts for a moment; his hands hover uselessly until they settle on either side of Tarrant's hips.

Tarrant produces one of his tiny, deadly knives from somewhere (and Ilosovic really doesn't want to think about where; the number of knives Tarrant has on his person at any one time is positively worrisome) and sets it to the fruit, slowly, patiently curling the peel off in a single long strip. He starts talking again, something about mirrors and names and apples, and Ilosovic doesn't even know what an _apple_ is. He taps a finger against Tarrant's hip and the knife stills. "They're … green," Tarrant says, slowly, "or red. Or both, sometimes. And sweet. Crisp. They're like … summerfruit. Except, not. Really." It's not an explanation at all, but Ilosovic merely hums something agreeable and Tarrant starts up again, the little knife catching the lamp light.

He finishes, the peel hanging oddly, like something almost alive, and Tarrant looks at it for a long moment, then drops it, flicking to the side of the bench. He notches out a thin slice, takes it in his fingers, and hands it back to Ilosovic. Ilosovic is starting to reach up and take it and Tarrant whispers, very low, "No."

Ilosovic stops, looking down at Tarrant. Tarrant's head is tilted back and to the side ever-so-slightly. It's just enough for Ilosovic to watch his eyes catch the light and glitter, waiting for something. Ilosovic settles his hand back against Tarrant's hip and leans forward, taking the slice; his lips barely brush Tarrant's fingers. Tarrant smiles.

It's sweet, wet, leaves you wanting more, much like Tarrant's mouth, he thinks. Tarrant's mouth, which is rambling on again, spouting words that have no connections, products of a mind that's lost cohesion. Tarrant burns; he is burning himself up, burning out. All Ilosovic can do is watch and be drawn in by the light.

Tarrant cuts another slice, and raises it to Ilosovic's lips.


End file.
